He's walking out of church, hand-in-hand with Linda, the strains of "God bless America" ringing in his ears (tomorrow's the Fourth, so the church hymns had been replaced with patriotic hymns), when he spies the "shrink" whom his mom had recommended he talk to two years ago, before he went back for his second tour. After their one (and only) session (he'd stormed out after twenty-nine minutes, he'd wanted to punch Devine or Devalera or whatever-the-hell her name was, but had restrained himself.
She makes a beeline for him now. "Danny, it's good to see you! How have you been? I heard you were Stateside again, and I'm so glad to see you! Are you doing better? Are your nightmares better? You look great!" the woman gushed. "I'm so glad you took my advice! Isn't prayer wonderful?"
He doesn't know what she's talking about—he hadn't taken her advice, he wasn't going to take her advice ever, because if a f-g prayer life was going to get rid of his nightmares and insomnia, then he was the Queen of England.
Linda's hand squeezes his, but before she can ask what this woman means, the sky and the crowds and his father's words yesterday and this woman's gushiness today, are pressing down on him—they're too much, he can't breathe—and he lets go of Linda's hand, turns, and flees.
He runs and runs and runs until his lungs are bursting and burning, black spots are dancing before his eyes, and he doubles over, gagging.
When he's done throwing up the meager breakfast he'd eaten, he sits back against the wall of the drugstore and wonders what to do.
He'd sure made a nice spectacle in front of everyone. Linda's probably looking for him. His dad is gonna disown him for the embarrassment he's just given the Reagan name. Doc is gonna tell him he's hopeless.
He wipes his face off, checks his belt for the knife he hides there. It's not there—which means Linda had probably taken it when she was afraid he was suicidal. He curses quietly, startles when a car door slams.
"Danny?"
It's Linda.
Crap, she knows how pathetic he is now.
He doesn't look at her.
He feels more than sees her sit down next to him, and he tenses.
But she doesn't yell, doesn't tell him he's pathetic, just asks, carefully, "Can I touch you?"
He nods, but still startles when her hand starts rubbing gentle circles on his shoulder. "Come here, I want you to try to slow your breathing down."
He lets her pull him close, tries to slow down his heaving gasps to her steady breathing.
"Are the boys okay?" he asks finally.
"They're fine; they were playing on the other side of the church; didn't see you. I don't think your father did, either. I texted Erin, told her I was feeling sick and you were gonna take me home. Frank will bring them home tonight; they were thrilled to still get to go to grandpa's."
"You're feeling sick? What's wrong?"
"I'm fine, Danny, just lied so they wouldn't know the truth."
He lets her drive them home, collapses on the couch, reaches up for his tie.
It's missing.
"I have it. You tore it off when you were running."
He nods, turns away when she sits down next to him. "I'm sorry I'm falling apart. I just…I was afraid I'd punch her. And then…everything was just too much, the crowds of people, and everything was so…open."
"You don't like crowds? Or open spaces?"
"Hard to know what's going on in a crowd, hard to spot a bomb or an IED."
He can tell he's upset her or scared her or something, and he sighs. "Look, I'm sorry. Can we just…forget about it?"
"Of course. Are you hungry?"
He shakes his head, pulls her close, puts his hand up her shirt.
"Danny, it's Sunday!" she shrieks, half-laughing.
He shrugs, exhausted, wondering if he's going to fail even at this because the pills are killing whatever sex drive he used to have. "So what? The boys aren't here, we already went to church, and I want a distraction."
She kisses him, and her hands go to his belt, and for an hour at least he forgets about Fallujah.
The boys are thoroughly exhausted when Frank brings them home, and it's an easy task to put them to bed.
Danny gets ready for bed, then sits on the trunk at the end of the bed while Linda's downstairs cleaning up the kitchen and finishing a load of laundry.
"Please come to bed, babe," Linda says, and he startles—he hadn't heard her come upstairs or come in the room.
He shakes his head and she sits down in front of him, puts her head on his knee.
"Come here," he says, needing her closer.
He holds her tightly once she's crawled into his lap. "I'm not tired."
That's a lie. He's just planning on staying up all night so he can't possibly have a nightmare.
"Babe, I'll wake you up if you have a nightmare."
He groans. She knows him too well. "You can't, Linda. Remember what happened the last time you tried?" She'd tried to shake him awake, and he'd punched her—not recognizing her. He still feels guilty, even though the black eye is fading.
"I won't…touch you, Danny. I'll just talk to you."
He kisses her, grateful she's still here even though his very existence is probably scaring the crap out of her. "Why isn't this getting any easier? Why can't I just forget? I've been home five months, and this…it's getting f-g worse instead of better.. I'm so f-g tired. I'm afraid I'll hurt you or the boys." The sleep deprivation is getting to him; he hasn't gotten a full night of sleep since…honestly, since he got home.
He tenses when she takes his face in her hands. "Look at me. Maybe this has to get harder before it gets better. I know you're dreading tomorrow…"
"Yeah, what kind of crappy American does that make me, dreading the Fourth of July? I should be celebrating, not cowering…"
"You're not a crappy American, and you're not cowering. You're a combat veteran with PTSD. That makes you a hero."
"No," he says roughly, emotion choking him suddenly. "I'm not a hero. The real heroes are the men, my buddies, my brothers, who died in Fallujah, who gave their lives for mine. They're the heroes. I'm just…a vet who's screwed up in the head, and…"
He's startled when she slaps him. "You are not screwed up in the head, Daniel Fitzgerald Reagan! You have PTSD, and you're in pain. That is very different from being 'screwed up in the head.' Now, I know you're dreading tomorrow, but I think getting some sleep tonight—or trying to—will help. Your sleep deprivation is only making everything worse. I'm going to get you your meds—plus the Benadryl we talked about—and I'll hold you till you're asleep, okay?"
He nods, gets in bed while she's unlocking the medicine cabinet.
He swallows the anti-anxiety pill and the antidepressant, makes a face at the taste.
"Good job," Linda says, rubbing his back—just like she does for the boys.
After a solid five minutes of staring the next two pills down, half-expecting them to jump down his throat, he swallows the Benadryl. If nothing else, it should give him a solid eight hours—unless he's one of those weird people whom it doesn't affect.
He lies down once she's turned off the lights, pulls her to rest on top of his chest. Having her close helps. "I love you, Linda Rose."
"Love you more, Danny Reagan."
"Love you most."